


Ode to Joy

by coyotesuspect



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Drunk Sex, M/M, Non-Explicit, Pre-Canon, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 10:04:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5535824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coyotesuspect/pseuds/coyotesuspect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>December 31st, 2008. Parse has a good feeling about the new year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ode to Joy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [idrilka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/idrilka/gifts).



New Year’s Eve, they absolutely demolish Moncton. Like, Parse feels kind of bad about it, it’s that bad. But it’s a hell of a fucking way to ring in 2009. They’re the untouchable, unquestionable kings of the hockey mountain, been top of the division since game 1, and he and Jack are neck in neck for points. 

He comes off the ice punch-happy and humming the classical bit from Die Hard – the part that goes like, dun dun du dun dun du dun du dun du dun dun. He goes straight to Jack, slaps him across the back and grins when Jack turns to scowl at whoever the fuck it is that’s bothering him. 

“Hey,” says Parse, grinning wider as he watches the scowl shift from Jack’s face. “Should have made that shot, Zimms.” 

The scowl reappears, instantaneously. It's amazing, thinks Parse happily. He loves Jack's grumpy old man schtick. 

“Yeah," says Jack, with a jerky nod. "I know.”

Late in second period, Jack had sent the puck spinning towards an empty net, and it smacked hard against the crossbar and rebounded. They were up four by that point, so it didn’t really matter. But it's the principle of the thing. And Parse has to keep Jack on his toes. 

“Don’t worry about it,” says Parse. He winks, knocks his shoulder against Jack’s. “Means I’m ahead on points now. Thanks for the Christmas present.” 

Jack glares at him and Parse cackles, and leads the way into the locker room. 

“You coming to Macer’s later?” he asks, halfway through undressing. He’s decided Jack’s had enough time to sulk. “It’s going to be crazy.”

“I should probably practice,” says Jack, muffled, half out of his shirt. 

“ _Are you kidding_?”

“I should have made that shot.” 

Parse pauses, looks hard at Jack, who is apparently fascinated by the contents of his locker. 

“You know I’m just chirping you, right?” says Parse, when Jack still won't meet his eyes. 

“Yeah,” says Jack. “But.” 

He raises one shoulder in a shrug and finally closes his locker. His jaw’s locked. 

“But it’s New Year’s Eve!” says Parse. “We won. We’re the best. You don’t need to fucking practice tonight.” 

Jack looks at him, his weird, hypnotic ice-eyes distant and unreadable. Parse fidgets under the attention, but stands his ground. Jack’s pulling some serious bullshit. 

“Do you want me to come?” he asks softly. 

“No, I want you to sit in your room feeling sorry for yourself,” says Parse. He knocks Jack’s shoulder. “Of course I fucking want you to come.” 

Jack nods. “Fine,” he says grudgingly. “But I want to work on the one-timer tomorrow. I don’t care how hungover you are.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Zimmermann,” says Parse cheerfully, though, honestly, he likes practicing with just Jack, hangover or no hangover. “But I accept.”

***

He and Jack arrive at Macer’s together, and also went in together on a bottle of good vodka, which Parse fully intends on reclaiming if there’s any left at the end of the night. Macer’s twenty, an actual kinda adult with his own place, so naturally he hosts all the team's parties. Parse loves Macer's. It’s tacky as hell. He’s got every game system Parse cares about, acid green walls, a chandelier made of _antlers_ like they live in the fucking backwoods, and, as of Christmas, a Robert Pattinson cardboard cut-out courtesy of Macer’s sister who either hates him or has a wicked sense of humor. Parse wonders vaguely if she’s hot. He’s never met her.

Parse and Jack both collect the adulation due them after the game they had and they come back together in the kitchen, each with a beer in hand. Parse drops a shot of whiskey in his, and Jack just pours a slug that’s probably closer to two shots. 

“Living dangerously, Zimms,” he says. He leans against the counter, his hip against Jack’s. 

“If I have to be here, I might as well enjoy myself,” says Jack. He still seems pretty wound up, eyes shuttered, arms held close. Parse just smiles at him and sips his drink. Jack’ll approach normal human being sometime around his second drink, and Parse is willing to wait.

“How was your Christmas?” asks Jack, politely. 

Parse snorts. But he doesn’t call Jack on his weird, "I only interact with people via stock phrases" thing. 

“Good,” he says. “Nana had too much eggnog again.”

“Oh?” says Jack, grinning. Jack likes Parse’s grandmother, because Nana and Jack share a similar disdain for humanity and Nana no longer feels like she has to pretend otherwise. He runs through the whole sordid list of Nana Parse commentary, ending with the part where she gave every family member a ten dollar bill and a list of New Year's resolutions she thinks they should make. 

By the end of it, Jack’s relaxed. He’s leaning against the counter, smiling his stupid soft smile he gets when he’s at-ease. They’re in a little bubble of their own. Most everyone’s in Macer’s living room or “entertainment arena” as he (hilariously, to Parse) likes to call it. It’s nice. 

“So are you making any resolutions?” asks Parse. 

“Uh, no, I don’t think so. Should I?” 

“Probably. You’ve got a lot you could work on.” 

“Thanks for the advice,” says Jack, amused. “Are you making any? Besides the ones your grandma gave you?” 

“I’m making three.” Parse smirks and ticks them off his fingers. “End the seasons with more points than anyone, go first in the NHL draft, _and_ win the Memorial Cup.”

“Huh. It’s going to be pretty disappointing,” says Jack evenly, “when only one of those happens.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Parse grins. “Which one?”

“Come on, Parse. You’re not that slow.” 

“You’re the slow one,” says Parse. He gestures at Jack’s ass. “It’s all the air resistance.” 

Jack throws his head back and laughs.

***

Some girls show up a little past eleven. Someone’s girlfriend and her friends or some randos or who knows, maybe someone fucking hired them. It wouldn’t be the first time. Parse drifts away from Jack and brushes by one and smiles. She has long red hair and freckles, slightly crooked front teeth that Parse thinks add to her charm.

“Hey, I’m Parse,” he says, because when you’re good-looking and confident you really don’t need an opening line. And sure enough, she looks him in the eye, blushes, and smiles back. 

Her name’s Chloe and she’s just finished her first semester at McGill, which Parse figures makes her a little older, but not enough for it to matter. He talks her into being his beer pong partner, and they end up facing off against Macer and Chloe’s friend Olivia that Macer’s been trying to get with for, like, _weeks_ as Chloe puts it. 

Chloe’s not very good, but, hey, Parse makes up for it. 

Except… 

“Your guy’s freaking out,” says Levitz, materializing at Parse’s shoulder halfway through the game. “Upstairs, guest room.” 

“He’s not _my_ guy, Vitz. He’s everyone’s guy,” says Parse. He throws the ball and winces as it skates along the rim of the cup and then pops out to bounce harmlessly off the table. Macer hoots his derision. 

"Nooo," says Chloe, covering her face. 

“Whatever,” says Parse, flipping Macer off. “What do you mean freaking out?” 

Levitz gives him a look, the, _you know what I'm fucking talking about_ look. Levitz is one of their d-men and he’s a big fucking guy. It’s a powerful look. 

“Fine, okay.” He turns to Chloe, who’s bright pink at this point from the heat of the party and the alcohol. “I’ll be back by midnight. Promise.” 

She giggles, and he knocks Levitz on the shoulder. “I’m tagging you in, Vitz. You said upstairs?” 

Levitz nods. 

Parse heads upstairs. He must have had more to drink than he realizes because he finds them tricky to navigate. He sways when he gets to the top, trying to remember which way is Macer’s guest room. He’s definitely hooked up in there before.

He opens a door at random. Bathroom, blessedly unused, and then turns to the next door. He pauses. He can hear Jack talking, though it’s hard to make out what he’s saying. He makes out “should have scored” and snorts. Of course Jack is still stuck on that. But who the hell is letting Jack ramble? The team’s mostly gotten pretty good at cutting Jack off when he really gets going on the self-flagellation. He wonders if Jack’s in there with one of the girls and the thought makes Parse kind of annoyed. It’s not like Jack is any good at talking to girls, but he’s not unattractive and kind of famous, so Parse guesses it’s possible he’s in there with one. He listens a little harder. 

“It’s just really important to me. Really important. Yeah.” A pause. Parse strains to hear a response, but if someone replies, they’re talking way too quiet for him to hear. 

“You’re a really good listener,” says Jack. 

Jesus Christ, Zimmermann, thinks Parse. Give it a rest. He opens the door.

“Jack?” he says. 

Jack’s head jerks up. He’s sitting on the bed in the dark, hunched over. A bottle of something is standing by his foot, but Parse can’t read the label from here. He glances around the room. There’s a silhouette of a person wearing a Santa hat in the window, backlit from the streetlamp outside. Parse squints at it. It’s not a person. No, it is definitely not a human being. 

“Have you seriously been talking to cardboard Robert Pattinson?”

“What,” says Jack. His hair is sticking up. It's kinda cute.

Parse sits down on the bed next to Jack and waves his hand in front of Jack’s face. Jack’s glassy-eyed and flushed. 

“Jesus, Zimmermann, how much have you even had?”

“I was talking to Robert Pattinson?” says Jack. “He’s here?” 

“Yeah,” says Parse, unnerved. He wishes he could laugh. It’s fucking funny, and there’s already a part of him that’s thinking what a great story this is going to be later – the time Jack was having a heart to heart with Macer’s Pattinson cut-out.

But Jack freaks him out when he gets like this. It’s not like it’s unusual for Jack to go space cadet when he’s had too much. But Parse wishes Jack could have a _normal_ reaction to drinking – like dancing on the tables or getting into fist-fights or running out half-dressed into the snow on a dare. Parse doesn’t know how to handle this disassociating with reality, long dark night of the soul shit. It’s like Jack’s not even in the same world as everyone else. 

“I drank some,” says Jack. “I was talking to…” He gestures at the cut-out and Parse watches the light in Jack’s eyes as everything finally clicks for him. “Oh. He’s not real.” 

“No. He’s not,” agrees Parse. He picks up the bottle of whatever Jack’s been drinking off the floor and takes a sip and coughs. The vodka. Great. 

Jack leans against him suddenly, and Parse shifts and puts his arm over Jack’s shoulder so he’s more comfortable. Jack’s bigger than him, so it’s kind of awkward, but it mostly works. 

“Vitz said you were freaking out,” he says. 

“No. I calmed down,” says Jack, talking way too slow. Parse chirps him about being a robot all the time, but he actually sounds like a robot when he talks like this. It’s like a parody of his ‘talking to press’ voice. Slow, no inflection, sounding like an old recording of someone talking from very far away. 

“You took something?” asks Parse, uneasy. 

He’s got the vague sense Jack takes pills sometimes to help with… the way he can get. Parse hasn’t asked before, but they’ve shared a room often enough that they don’t exactly have a lot of secrets between the two of them. He doesn’t really get it. They’re amazing hockey players and everyone wants to be them. What is there to be anxious about?

Jack shrugs, noncommittal. Parse sighs and tips his head back. He’s surprised no one else has stumbled in to the guest room while they’ve been sitting there. Maybe Vitz spread the word. He checks his watch and 11:54 glows back at him. Shit, he thinks. He wanted to be downstairs with Chloe at midnight, but he probably shouldn’t ditch Jack now.

“Do you want to go downstairs?” he asks hopefully. 

Jack shakes his head. And, God, he’s going to _mope_ now. 

“Okay. That’s chill.” Parse rubs his knuckles against Jack’s hairline. It’s not like it’s bad, being up here with Zimms. And Vitz has probably put the moves on Chloe already anyway. Parse is glad at least Jack isn’t going to be alone at midnight. Or making out with Robert Pattinson. Parse laughs out loud at that mental image. 

“What?” asks Jack. 

“I was just thinking about you ringing in 2009 with our friend over there,” says Parse. He rubs his thumb against the curve of Jack’s ear and snickers at the offended noise Jack makes in response. Honestly, Parse is starting to feel pretty good. Jack’s calmed down and he’s solid and warm, and Parse is riding the happy edge of alcohol abuse, feeling kind of floaty and at peace. The music from downstairs vibrates gently against his feet. 

“Do you want to go on the roof?” asks Jack suddenly. 

“You know how to get on the roof?” says Parse. 

Jack nods, and Parse grins. He shouldn’t be surprised. Just because Jack’s kind of a goober off the ice doesn’t mean he isn’t also, on occasion, a genius. Parse thinks it’s because he’s so quiet. He sees shit other people don’t. 

“Well, lead the fucking way.”

It’s not really the roof, so much as a tiny, hidden balcony, the kind of thing you could stand on and smoke a cigarette while staring moodily across the city. It’s barely big enough for the two of them. It’s also fucking cold outside, the night clear. There was snow a few days ago and there’s still snow clinging to the roofs around them, gleaming palely in the dark. It's kind of romantic, and if Macer had the brains God gave a gopher, he'd be up here right now with Olivia. But he's not, thinks Parse smugly. The place is his and Jack's. Parse’s arms break out in goosebumps, but he doesn’t mind. Jack’s behind him, radiating warmth. 

Parse checks his watch. 11:59. Perfect. 

He turns so they can both look at his wrist without Jack needing to stare over his shoulder. They count down together, their heads bent close, their breath mingling. 

“Two…one,” they say together. A firework goes off somewhere in the distance, and then, immediately, a car alarm. 

“Happy New – ” starts Parse.

Jack kisses him. It’s more of a bump of his mouth against Parse’s than anything and his nose collides with Parse’s cheek. Parse makes a weird half-squeak, totally stunned, and takes a half-step back, his back bumping against the questionably decoratively lacy railing. Jack grabs his shirt and tugs him back, eyes wide and panicked. 

“I wasn’t going to fall,” says Parse, still shocked. 

“I wasn’t going to let you,” says Jack, intent.

Parse, to his own dismay, blushes. 

“What the fuck, Jack,” he manages to say. 

Jack’s face is white and blank. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t – ” starts Parse. He stops. It’s the kind of thing bros might do as a joke – haha we kissed, how gay, el oh fucking el. But that’s, that’s not Jack. Jack would only kiss someone if he meant to do it. If he wanted to do it. 

Parse isn’t really that kind of bro either. He’s not the most mature person, yeah, but he’s not thirteen any more either and no homo jokes are no longer the height of humor.

Jack's fingers are still twisted in Parse’s shirt. Parse feels light-headed, it could be the cold, or the alcohol. But Parse doesn’t think it’s either. He and Jack are amazing together, right? They’re going to be legends someday, and he loves Jack, with a weird tenderness behind his ribs that he’s always dismissed as just finding the perfect partner on the ice. Whatever they do tonight is going to spin out in ways neither of them can control. 

Jack looks down at him, expression surprisingly vulnerable. Parse reminds himself that this is the guy who fifteen minutes ago was pouring his heart out to a 2-dimensional being. So. Parse probably shouldn’t. But, Christ, he’s not used to thinking this much. This must be what it feels like in Jack’s head all the time. Jack leans in a little closer. His hair is still mussed, his mouth looks really soft. The world spins and tilts a little bit. 

Fuck it, thinks Parse. He’s going for it. 

He leans up and kisses Jack back, feels Jack let go of his shirt and slide his hands up Parse’s back. 

Five minutes later, they stumble back into the guest room, giggling – if Parse is being honest – and cold and clutching at each other. It’s miraculously still empty. Maybe Pattinson did them a solid. Parse laughs out loud again at that and Jack shoves his shoulder.

“What?” he demands. 

“It’s not about you,” says Parse, still laughing. He grabs at Jack’s shirt and tugs him down onto the bed. Except he misses and only hits the edge and keeps sliding down, straight to the floor. Jack comes with him. 

Parse ends up on his back. The music’s gotten louder. It shakes up through the floor, through Parse’s body. Jack straddles him, his hands flat on the ground on either side of Parse’s face. 

“Are you feeling better?” asks Parse. 

Jack nods. His eyes are focused on Parse’s face, and Parse’s chest heats up, goes liquid, like drinking really good whisky. Jack’s looked at him like this before, but it’s always been on the ice, right before they make some impossible play. Parse shivers under that stare. 

“Do something already,” he says, and he rolls his hips up into Jack’s. 

Jack swears and grabs Parse’s jaw with one of his stupid, giant hands, and he kisses him. Parse rocks up again. He slides his hands under Jack’s shirt and digs his nails into the hot skin of Jack’s back. Jack jerks in surprise and makes a harsh, quiet noise of pleasure in the back of his throat that goes straight to Parse’s dick. Of course Jack would get off on a little pain. He hooks his leg over Jack’s ass and bite’s Jack’s shoulder. Jack moans.

***

“Christ,” says Parse afterwards. He sits up and zips up his pants, straightens his shirt. He’s still got little blinking dots in his vision, and he feels loose-limbed, totally sated, ready to pass the fuck out.

Jack laughs gently at him leans against the bed, spreading his legs a little so that Parse has space to lean up against Jack’s chest. Jack’s a lot of muscle and bone, but it’s still a surprisingly comfortable position, even if Jack’s chin is poking into his shoulder. Jack kisses his cheek. 

“That was great,” says Parse, smiling, dazed. He feels Jack’s heart-beat, moves with Jack’s breaths.

Jack doesn’t say anything, just keeps his arms around Parse. 

They sit like that for several minutes, Parse completely not caring if anyone walks in and sees them like this. Fuck them. Parse will cuddle with whoever he wants. He’s drifting, hazy and pleasant, into sleep, when Jack says, very low, “Sometimes I feel like everything’s slipping away.” 

“What?” says Parse, waking up a bit. He tries to blink away the sleep. “What’s slipping away?” 

Jack takes a moment to answer. He shrugs. “Time. This.” 

“This?” says Parse. “ _This_ just happened.” He pauses, considers it. “It should totally happen again though.” 

From the quality of Jack’s silence, sex isn’t what he meant. 

“Are we even going to be in the same country next year?” asks Jack, after a long moment. “Are we ever going to play together again after this year?”

“Come on, Jack,” says Parse, trying to shift so he can look at him better. He still feels tired, but it’s a different quality of tired now. He’s weary. “How about we make a deal? Wherever we are next New Year’s Eve, we’ll call each other. And then we’ll hang out as soon as we can afterwards.” 

It’s kind of a lame plan, Parse admits. But it’s a whole year away. He can figure out something better before then.

“Sure,” says Jack. He doesn't sound excited. 

“How come you always have to think so far ahead?” asks Parse. He squeezes Jack’s wrist. “Can’t you just be happy right now?” 

Jack doesn’t say anything. The sit in awkward silence, until Parse spots the bottle of vodka lying hidden beneath the bed. He reaches over and pulls it out, offers it to Jack. 

“Cheers,” says Parse, but Jack shakes his head, still quiet. 

Parse shrugs and unscrews the bottle. He drinks to the new year.

***

Jack’s gone when he wakes up. He’s got a giant crick in his neck and he’s fucking freezing. He sits up. Pepper is passed out on the bed, wearing one shoe and a Santa hat. The Pattinson cut-out has disappeared. Parse chews on his lip, wonders who might’ve come in during the night and seen him and Jack passed out on the floor together. Even if someone got a picture, thinks Parse, it probably wouldn’t be too bad. They both kept their clothes on. And who hasn’t passed out drunk on the floor with their best friend?

He rubs his neck and winces. He’s got a bruise. He leaves the room quietly and goes to the bathroom. His reflection is way too fucking pale, his mouth red and chapped. And there’s a giant fucking hickey right under his jawline. He touches it and frowns. Where the fuck did Jack go?

He digs his phone out of his pocket and checks it. It’s only nine, which isn’t bad, but Jack’s already sent him two texts, which also isn’t bad. The first is a curt Happy New Year’s and the second is a reminder that they’re practicing today and that Parse should show up at two. 

Parse gets home around ten. His billet parents are both eating in the breakfast nook, and he meets complementary expressions of disapproval and amusement. 

“Good game yesterday, Parser,” says his billet dad, amused. 

“You should have called if you weren’t going to make it home last night,” says his billet mom, disapproving. 

Parse grunts a response to them both. They’re eating bacon and black-eyed peas and the smell is nauseating. He flees to his room and sleeps for another couple hours. 

By the time two rolls around and he makes it to the ice rink, he only feels mildly regretful that he made this deal with Jack. He’s showered. He’s eaten. He’s a human being. It’s great. He rubs at his hickey, self-conscious, wondering how Jack will react when he sees it. He resolutely has not thought about what happened last night, though his dick showed some interest in reconsidering the events when he woke up from his nap. 

“You’re late,” says Jack, when he sees him. Parse flips him off.

“Have you considered resolving to be a more pleasant person?” asks Parse, and then yawns obnoxiously for the hell of it. 

“I told you not to come hungover,” says Jack, stern, but Parse can tell he’s doing everything he can not to smile. 

Parse smiles at him lazily and stretches, tilting his head back so Jack can see the hickey. Jack looks studiously away. Which, huh. That’s interesting. 

He doesn’t push it. He grabs his stick. 

“Whatever. Let’s just do this,” he says. 

They practice the play for an hour. The first half hour is perfect. They’ve always had a great energy between them, but it’s never been like this before. Everything’s clicking, and Parse can feel an electric line of connection between him and Jack, thrumming with bright energy. It must be last night, he thinks, feeling slightly giddy. 

He’s still hungover though, so he’s flagging hard by the end. But, except for a tightness around his eyes and mouth, Jack seems totally unaffected. He’s skating literal circles around Parse as Parse glides sulkily off the ice. 

“You’re not human,” he hisses. A headache is starting behind his eyes. He sits down. 

“Can’t hold your liquor,” says Jack, smirking. He comes off the ice and sits next to Parse. He’s humming and it takes Parse a second to realize it’s the fucking Die Hard song. He shoves Jack’s shoulders. 

“You’re one to talk,” he snaps. “I wasn’t the one getting cozy with Robert Pattinson’s cardboard twin last night.” 

His stomach gets tight suddenly. They’re treading very close to talking about what happened. And it’s kind of thrilling. 

“What are you talking about?” asks Jack, voice gone suspiciously flat. 

“What?” says Parse. “You don’t remember?”

“Did I do something?” says Jack. His cheeks are red. He’s taking a long time to unlace his boots. “I don’t remember anything past 11:30.” 

Parse stares at him. Jack’s blacked out before. Hell, Parse has, too. But. It’s a really fucking convenient time to black out. He feels a little sick. 

“You’re shitting me,” says Parse. 

Jack looks resolutely ahead and says nothing. Parse’s mouth works, trying to figure out what to say. He has half a mind to curse Jack out. But then Jack glances at him, and his eyes settle on the dark bruise on Parse’s throat. Jack’s own throat works. 

He remembers, realizes Parse. He just wishes he hadn’t done it. 

“You weren’t that bad,” says Parse, staring Jack in the eye. “I had a good time at least.”

Jack turns redder and he looks away. Parse doesn’t get it. Okay, he kinds of gets it. Like, it’s not going to be great for either of their careers if it gets out, and Jack's clearly scared of getting to be too serious. But it doesn’t have to get out, and it doesn't have to be that serious if Jack doesn't want it. It could be a lot of fun and Jack's always going to be his friend. He remembers Jack’s hands on him, the way Jack had looked at him, and he takes a deep breath to steady himself. 

It’s fine. Jack’s not going to admit anything. But Parse would like to do it again and he’s never been afraid of anything. He stretches, languid, at-ease.

“But whatever,” he says. He smiles at Jack. “You should walk me home.” 

“Uh. All right,” says Jack, suddenly wary, like he knows Parse is up to something.

Parse isn’t, not really. At least, he’s not plotting anything immediate. But he’s going to get Jack to talk about what happened, and, with any luck, it’ll happen again. It’s just one more resolution to add to the list. He feels expansive, hopeful. He has Jack right now, his best friend, his favorite teammate, his greatest competition. They make sense together. 

He stands up. He starts humming. He touches Jack’s arm. They’re invincible. 2009 is going to be their year.


End file.
